All Hell Breaks Loose

18

All Hell Breaks Loose

    Aunty Vi’s harangues have got too much, just like Jill predicted, and after a particularly long one on the subject of Jake and making up my mind what I want—pointless, the man’s dumped me, what I want has got nothing to do with it—not to mention the usual theme of “avoiding things again, Polly,” and its corollary, “needing to face up to things, Polly,” I’ve come back home. Grey was pleased to see me, anyway. Rod’s old Triumph’s in dock, but he’s had the sense not to ask me for a lift, he’s just catching the workers’ bus. Rog seems to be avoiding me, too. Good.

    Leo, on the other hand, isn’t avoiding me—well, yeah, I did go on another date with him. And Jill can take a running jump, it isn’t her life! Though actually she’s right, and Aunty Vi’s right, too: it is mean to encourage him if I’m not gonna, take your pick, “take it seriously” or “put out for the bastard”. So I told him afterwards that I was sorry but it was a mistake and we’d better cool it. So what happened? He turned up at varsity on the Monday—in January, Ma Pretty just about threw a conniption—and asked me for another date! So I said I wasn’t gonna change my mind. –And the reason Maisie Pretty’s at work in January isn’t that the Faculty Office is in a mess, which it is, or that there are piles of typing that poor little Dawn, hard worker though she is, isn’t getting through, or that the database Kevin’s insisted the cow start using for the Faculty records has the best part of six months’ updating waiting to be done—passive resistance, typical of women like Maisie—it’s because this year she’s decided to take most of her leave in May and go to Surfer’s Paradise. She doesn’t either surf or swim, so there you are.

    Today starts with Grey wanting out about five in the morning. Yeah, great start. I open the back door at breakfast time and ugh! He’s caught a fantail: the poor thing’s fluttering and broken, with Grey crouching at a distance, watching it with cold yellow eyes.

    “Well, kill it! Go on, then!” –Pick the brute up and put him down again right beside his suffering victim. “Go on, Grey!” But he just turns aside, bored.

    All right! March inside and unearth the big meat-chopper. It’s hardly ever used, except when Dad or one of the boys bring up a side of mutton from the farm. The little bird isn’t moving. Is it dead? Then it flutters again. Grab it, bring it inside, and WHACK! Decapitate it on the chopping-board. No, well, I’d’ve wrung its poor little neck if I had the know-how, but the chopper’s quick and failsafe, you just have to not hesitate—not think about it, just do it.

    I’m gonna bury it in the orchard. Um, logistics. Okay, I’ll wrap the poor wee thing in newspaper, that can be its shroud. Now, grab the spade. Hole digging is not that easy, actually; I mean, I can use a spade, yeah, but why do the sides always collapse? The only time when the male half is halfway useful is when there’s this sort of hard yacker to be done—“Get off, Grey!”—which is always the time they’re conspicuous by their absence, right! Then when you’ve done it they turn up and say “Aw, ya should’ve—” Yeah. Like that time I planted that rosebush in the front garden and then His High and Mightiness Lord Carrano swanned up and told me I should’ve let his gardener do it.

    “No, Grey, get OFF! If ya wanted it, ya should’ve eaten it!” Um, there, I think that’s deep enough so as the brute can’t dig it up again. And if I shovel all the dirt back in—shovel, shovel—and then stamp it down really hard, maybe that’ll stop him. Stamp, stamp. Pant, pant. Done!

    Okay, next move: scrub the cleaver and the chopping-board mercilessly with scalding hot water and vast amounts of detergent. Grey’s wandering around the kitchen restlessly, poking his nose into all the corners and snuffing hard.

    “No, it’s not there, you brute! It’s gone—all gone!”

    The snuffing goes on until the gutser’s breakfast’s put down for him.

    Aw, gee, the day’s got worse. It’s gone half-past ten and there is no coffee at work. ’Cos guess why? ’Cos I used the last of it yesterday, but somehow, what with the fantail and having to perform the happy dispatch with the snickersnee, I completely forgot I was gonna get more on the way in. Blast! Um, the S.C.R. is open for lunches, because quite a few of the Library and Admin staff are in, but it’s not doing morning teas and the bar’ll be closed. Ditto the Graduate Club, until lunchtime. I’ll have to go downtown.

    Blimming Roger surfaces and suggests he could “get one of the girls to run out for some.” Jesus! So I tell him this isn’t the bloody British Raj and go myself. Feebleized drip! It’s a Helluva hike down to the nearest place that sells coffee beans and it’s swelteringly hot: not only beating down from the sky, it seems to be coming up from the asphalt pavement in waves. My head’s splitting by the time I reach the shops. All right, coffee beans and then Panadol—another hike—and take two, dry, gasp, retch!

    Roger’s hovering in the corridor outside the staffroom when I get back. “Ay wish yoow’d let me go, Polleh,” he bleats in that Pommy voice of his.

    “Never mind—I’ve got it now.”

    “Let me make it—why don’t you sit down? You look terribly hot.”

    All right, he can. Collapse onto the big old couch and put the feet up.

    “Ta, Rog. I’ve got a bit of a headache.” Big mistake: tutting and fluffing around ensues—no, what’s Jill’s word? Pfaffing, yeah. Pfaffing around. “I’ve taken some Panadol; I’ll be okay; don’t fuss!”

    So he goes and farts around over at the bench, dropping things. Gee, and just on cue, bloody Leo strolls in.

    “Polly, darr-ling! You don’t look quite your usual cheerful self, ma chère: what’s up?”

    As if he cares. He’s saying it to annoy Rog. “I’ve got a headache, that’s all.”

    “O, ma pauvre!” Squats beside me and takes my hand. Lowers his voice to a pseudo-confidential murmur calculated to be just loud enough to allow Roger to hear every word. “T’as tes règles, peut-être, ma mie?”

    “No I have NOT!”—Jerk my hand away.—“Should I put a notice on the board? ‘Dr Mitchell is pleased to announce that she does not have her period this week’!”

    Over at the bench Roger drops a spoon.

    Leo’s not phased, he gives one of those special soft laughs of his. “O, là-là! Quelle colère! On dirait— Mais t’es pas enceinte, mignonne?”

    What? The cheeky bugger! “No, I bloody well am NOT! And what the Hell business is it of yours, anyway?”

    “Really, Leo, that was quite uncalled-for!” puts in Roger at his most self-righteous.

    I’m just gonna tell him to tell him to keep out of it, too, when Leo says smoothly: “Indeed? And what gives you the right to interfere between me and Polly, petit Anglais?” He stands up, raising the eyebrows superciliously—guaranteed to reduce timid little First-Years to tears, this one, and even Third-Years, who’ve long since learned just how little hard content his bloody so-called lectures normally have, have been known to quail and retreat, stammering that it, whatever it was, doesn’t matter.

    Naturally this has got right up Roger’s nose and he squawks: “Any man with a—a spark of decency would do his best tuh-to interfere between you and a—a decent girl like Polly!”

    So Leo spits back: “Explain what you mean by that, salaud!”

    “For Christ’s sake, drop it, the pair of you!”

    They both ignore me. All right, it’s some sort of stupid male standoff thing, the female no longer has a rôle; they can bloody well get on with it!

    Roger’s shouting: “I mean you’re a damned womanizer, and not fit to come within fifty feet of a girl like Polly!” –Musta got it out of a book.

    Leo’s voice, in contrast, is suddenly very soft. “Oh-ho! I am the womanizer, am I? Take care what you say, mon cher! I could mention one or two un-sa-vou-ree episodes in your own recent past!”

    “You bastard!” shrieks Roger. “I told you that in confidence!” He what? Then he’s as big a nit as I’ve always thought—no, bigger.

    I get up to rescue the hissing coffee-pot. “Stop it, you pair of idiots! You’re being ridiculous!”

    I’m heading for the door but Leo grabs my arm. “Ridiculous? Bah—non, ma petite, what is ridiculous is the way I’ve allowed you to lead me on: permit me to tell you, ma chérie, that your little games of fausse vierge have ceased to amuse me! They may work with him, but I am not an overgrown adolescent, me!”

    “Knock it off, Leo; and drop the Frog bit: you came out here when you were four, you’re not convincing anyone!” Wrench away from the prick and slap! on the left cheek.

    “Salope!” he hisses, staggering back.

    “How dare you use such language! Apologize to Polly at once!” shrieks Roger.

    Leo gives a nasty laugh. “You forget yourself, petit mec!” He walks right up to him, grabs him by his shirt-front, and thrusts his face into his. “What’s between Polly and me is none of your business! I’ve known her a few years longer than you, petit Anglais! Keep your long nose out of this!”

    “I don’t care how long you’ve known her! Don’t imagine she can stand the sight of you, because she can’t! Let me go!”

    Leo shakes him with both hands. “What do you know of what Polly can stand? Pah!” He lets go suddenly and Roger staggers, almost losing his balance. “You imagine she prefers you, perhaps? Déconne-pas!” He dusts his hands disdainfully, the flaming poseur.

    I’ve had enough! “Shut up, the pair of you! I can’t stand either of you, so just shut up! Shut up! You’re disgusting, the pair of you!”

    Leo’s nostrils flare. “So-o? You did not find me so dis-gust-eeng on Saturday night, ma mie; or do you often allowing ‘disgusting’ men to—”

    Cripes! Roger’s hit him in the mouth!

    Leo spits out a Polish oath, flings himself on him, and they collapse onto the floor, kicking and writhing. Crash! A wooden chair goes over. They roll heavily over. Roger brings his right hand back to punch Leo; Leo tries to knee him. They’re panting hard and grunting. Roger’s fist connects with Leo’s shoulder. Leo twists violently and tries to bite Roger’s ear. Then he kicks him hard in the shins. Roger gives a yelp and kicks back. Leo sinks his teeth into Roger’s left forearm and Roger rears up with a shriek and thumps him in the diaphragm.

    They’re both rotten fighters. But if it goes on someone might get really hurt. There’s a grubby old plastic bucket under the sink, used by the cleaners for God knows what: grab it, half-fill it with cold water and splash! Empty it over the struggling pair of twits.

    They yelp, and fall apart convulsively.

    Oops! At the same moment Mrs Pretty and Dawn appear in the doorway with their eyes on stalks.

    “What on earth’s going on?” cries Ma Pretty.

    “Ask them.”

    “Dr Schmidt... Dr Browne...” she falters.

    Leo staggers to his feet. One cheekbone looks bruised, serve him right, and there’s blood on his knuckles. He gives the innocent Mrs Pretty a savage look. “Qu’elle se taise, la gueuse!” He grabs a tea-towel and mops his face with it, grimacing.

    “It’s all right, Maisie, they—uh—they just had a stupid argument. Why don’t you go back to your office; it’s all over.”

    “Bu-but Dr Browne—is he hurt?” she gasps.

    He’s sitting up with his head in his hands, the feebleized nong. Good thing if he is! “No, he’ll be okay.” I’m waiting, Maisie...

    She’s all flushed and anxious-looking, not to say bursting with curiosity. Maybe if she was by herself she’d stay but see, she has to set an example to Dawn, doesn’t she? So she pulls her arm and says: “Come on, dear,” in a low voice—not sure why the low voice, do stupid male fights warrant low voices?—and drags her open-mouthed form away.

    “Well! You two made a nice exhibition of yourselves, didn’t you!”

    This goes down good: Leo throws me a bitter look, hurls the tea-towel onto the floor, mutters something in Polish and slams out.

    Roger’s still sitting on the floor.

    “Get up, for Pete’s sake, Rog! You’re not hurt!”

    “I’m sorry,” he mutters, not looking at me.

    “So you oughta be! Here!”—chucking the damp tea-towel at him.

    He just looks blank.

    “Help me clear up this mess!” I grab another tea-towel and begin mopping up the water on the floor. He gets the point and copies me.

    … That’s better, the floor’s reasonably dry and probably no-one’s gonna slip and break their necks on it, though if one or two did it wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it?

    “Polly?” he bleats in a small voice.

    “Look, just forget it!” –Glare.

    Right, he slinks out. What the Hell did he expect? A flaming medal?

    I’ll just rinse the tea-towels in hot water—there! Um, they're probably poisonous, better take them home this evening and give them a proper wash.

    Back in my office I just sit down limply at my desk. Dunno whether to laugh or cry. Laugh. Blast, doesn’t work, I’m bawling like a twit!

    Tap, tap, and the door opens before I can utter a syllable.

    “Oh, dear, I knew it!” Mrs Pretty, who else? She sets a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits and sandwiches on the desk and bustles round to pat me on the shoulder. “There, there, dear; don’t cry over those two sillies!”

    Gulp, sniff, sniffle. Manage to sit up and wipe my hand across my eyes.

    “There now, dear! You have a nice cup of tea!” The grey-haired, grandmotherly Mrs Pretty offers the mug anxiously. The thing is, the woman’s quite genuine, but at the same time impossibly nosey and the biggest gossip in the entire university—male or female.

    “Thanks, Maisie.” Ugh, the tea’s dark orange and the milk tastes boiled, ugh! Well, she is more or less Mum’s generation, after all. “They are silly, aren’t they?”

    “Very silly,” she agrees, offering me a sandwich.

    Help: they’re the Faculty biscuits, but this’ll be one of her own sandwiches, from her lunch! But it’s no use arguing with her: she’s the sort that’s determined to martyr herself and if you don’t let her, is more than capable of sulking for a week. She was widowed at fifty, poor thing, and you can’t help feeling sorry for her, but all the same you can’t help thinking it’s no wonder Mr Pretty popped his clogs, she’d be Hell on wheels to live with. I eat the sandwich obediently. It’s nice, cheese and Vegemite with lettuce.

    “They had a stupid argument.”

    “But what on earth was it about?”

    Shit, why did I start? I’ve gone red as fire. Whatever I say it’ll be all round the university in a highly spiced and garbled version before you can turn round!

    Quickly she pats my hand. “There, my dear; you needn’t say another word: I understand! Men can be very silly at times.”

    “I don’t like either of them!” Help, what's the matter with me? Why can’t I just shut up?

    She’s brightened horribly, but she says soothingly, patting my hand again: “Of course not. Have something else to eat, dear.” She takes a sandwich and begins to chat comfortably about her little grandson’s latest exploits. I am quite grateful for the change of subject and for the lunch, it’s very generous of her, but at the same time I can hear the wheels going round, click, click, click...

    Having spent the entire morning in the library, Rod missed all the excitement. Mrs Pretty popped out of her office and waylaid him when he got back at about half-past two, regaling him with the story of the fight and warning him to keep clear of the two protagonists for the rest of the day.

    He needed to see Polly about work. He went along to her office and, taking the bull by the horns, said firmly: “Gidday. I’m not gonna ask you about the row, because Ma Pretty’s already given me an earful.”

    “Um—yeah,” said Polly feebly. “She was quite decent to me, actually. It was Leo’s fault: he needled Roger until he hit him.”

    “On the vodka again,” diagnosed Rod sourly. “Well, he was yesterday when I tried to get some sense out of him round three in the arvo, why wouldn’t he be today? Told me you’d given him the brush-off for good an’ all: good on ya.”

    “Did he actually admit that?” she asked dazedly.

    “Put it like this,” said Rod, pulling up a chair and dumping his folder of notes on her desk: “he used a very rude expression, consisting of a four-letter word followed by the word ‘teaser,’ then he called you a gueuse, then he called you something even worse in Polish, and I said, So you’d given him the definitive brush-off, then, and he shouted—in English: ‘Yes, the bitch!’ I’d call it admitting it.”

    “Yeah,” she agreed, grimacing.

    He opened his folder. “This.” He stabbed it with his finger. “You did say you’d look at it.”

    “Yes,” agreed Polly gratefully. “You’ve given up that idea of a statistical analysis of the grammatical structures, I hope?”

    “Uh—well, that article Leo mentioned did sound interesting, only I never managed to get it out of him,” he said on a weak note. “I have dropped it, yeah: my TG’s not good enough.”

    “No-one’s TG is good enough for a rigorous statistical approach, Rod,” replied Dr P.M. Mitchell cordially.

    “What about that program you’re working on?” he said feebly.

    “I’m not using TG,” said Polly incautiously.

    Rod goggled at her. The whole of the Faculty of Lang. and Ling. was under the impression that she was!

    Polly bit her lip. “The program will translate the results into TG, if require—” She stopped: Rod had broken down in agonising hysterics. “Well,” she admitted as he blew his nose hard, “it’s a lot easier to get published if you give a realistic imitation of being on the bandwaggon.”

    “Yeah,” he said weakly. He looked at his folder and said lamely: “Um, I only thought—well, analyse the layers? Like, how many transformations, um, how many shifts away from the basic grammatical structure each sentence is, and then you’d have the picture of the writer’s typical style.”

    “You would if the transformational generative grammar shtick was rigorous enough to allow you to count the so-called transformations with any accuracy, yes. Not to say capable of saying what the Hell a basic grammatical structure is in the first place!”

    “Um, yeah. Well, I couldn’t make it work. Um, noun, object verb?” he offered feebly.

    “Why?” replied Polly blandly. “Take the sentence ‘Why?’ for example.”

    Rod swallowed.

    “And exactly how do you handle a French reflexive verb? Is it one or more shifts away from the structure of a French that no longer exists?” she said sweetly.

    “Yeah,” he agreed with a silly grin. “Well, like I say, I couldn’t make it work, so I’ve given it away.”

    “Good. TG is basically crap. Long-winded crap of the most pretentious kind, which is why it looks so tempting. In actual fact it doesn’t express anything more than traditional grammar does—though it certainly does it with a lot more circumlocution!” said Polly cheerfully. “Let’s see what you have done, then.”

    They plunged into it…

    They were in the thick of it when the phone rang. Mrs Pretty, with an outside call, looking for Rod. She thought there might be something the matter. Polly watched anxiously as Rod took the call. He didn’t say much but he looked very sick.

    “The cops have arrested Jack,” he reported numbly.

    “What?”

    Rod looked at her numbly. “He didn’t do it.”

    “Of course he didn’t!”

    He licked his lips. “He won’t say where he was that night.”

    “It’s not illegal any more, for Pete’s sake! And his mum does know he’s gay!”

    “Um, yeah. Well, coulda been a married man,” he said glumly.

    “Or someone else’s boyfriend, mm. Well, he’ll have to tell the police now.”

    Rod just looked at her miserably.

    “Roger’s got some brandy,” said Polly with a sigh, getting up. “Hang on.”

    Rod just sat there numbly until she came back with Rog and the bottle. He had a nasty scratch on one cheek—oh, yeah, the fight.

    “Ta,” he said dully, accepting a glass. He sipped, shuddered, and sighed.

    “Three star,” said Polly on a detached note, pouring a belt into her mug. She drank, and winced.

    “Um, Jack’ll need a lawyer,” offered Roger.

    “Yes!” snarled Rod. “I’ve been sitting here trying to think of one! Um, sorry, Rog. Nasty scratch you’ve got there: trust Leo to fight like a bloody girl, eh?”

    “Mrs Pretty put some stuff on it,” said Roger lamely. “The whole thing was stupid.”

    “Yeah. Don’t apologise again,” said Polly drily. “There is a law firm in Puriri but it’s very small and I don’t think they do criminal work.”

    “It better be someone good,” said Rod anxiously. “Um, well, like you say, a criminal lawyer.” He looked at her hopefully.

    “Don’t look at me. The only one I know of is that man Jake knows.”

    “Wal Something,” offered Rod feebly.

    “I remembered the Wal bit, too,” replied Polly grimly. “Wal What?”

    “Dunno. Didn’t you meet him at some dinner or something?”

    “I met him,” said Polly evilly, “at a horribly up-market dinner party thrown by Magda and Bruno von Trotte—talking of married closet gays.”

    “All right! Is it my fault the sickener put his hand on my bum?” he shouted.

    “No,” she admitted. “Sorry. I did meet Wal Whatever-his-name-is. He leered horribly down my bodice”—the two young men both swallowed involuntarily—“and told me I was far too pretty to waste my time on a bloke that spends twenty-five hours a day on business.”

    “Um, yeah,” said Rod feebly. “Um, I think you’d have met him, Rog, on the day you found the—found poor old Don Banks.”

    “An ugly man—joli-laid,” said Polly.

    “That’s French for looks like a basset hound,” explained Rod heavily.

    Roger looked blank. “I vaguely remember him. I can’t recall his name.”

    “Um… Simpkins?” suggested Rod dubiously.

    “No,” said Polly with a sigh. “That’s the corporate lawyer from the Group.” They were both looking at her with helplessness written all over their stupid male faces, Jesus!

    Grimly she reached for the phone.

    Jake had just sustained a call from Polly’s Aunt Violet which had left him thoroughly shaken.

    “Good morning, Jacob, this is Violet Macdonald speaking,” the determined old voice had said.

    Jake felt as if he was gonna pass out. “Is Polly all right?” he croaked.

    “Yes, perfectly all right,” the old dame said in a composed voice.

    “Good,” he said weakly. Uh—shit! Had she got herself engaged to one of those tits— “What?” he said dazedly.

    “I said,” Miss Macdonald repeated grimly, “that before I go on, I’d like to know whether you’re involved in this murder business.”

    “Well, I’d be hardly likely to tell ya, if it was me done him in,” Jake said limply.

    “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” she retorted tartly.

    “Look, Violet, what’s this all about?”

    He heard the old lady draw a deep breath.

    “All right, I get it: she’s done something bloody silly, is that it? Got herself engaged to one of those t—idiots that’ve been hanging round her all year?”

    “Not yet, she hasn’t. No thanks to you. –And why are you so concerned, may I ask?” she snapped.

    Jake sighed. “Why do you think, Vi?”

    “I’m waiting for you to tell me, Jacob,” the old-lady voice said grimly.

    Jake ran his free hand over his curls. “Look, if ya wanna know, I’d have asked her to marry me if I thought she— Anyway, I’m too bloody old for her,” he muttered.

    There was a short pause.

    “She doesn’t appear to think so,” said Polly’s aunt.

    “Look, she’s more interested in her flaming research and those bloody tits in her department at varsity than she is in me!”

    “Rubbish!” cried Miss Macdonald loudly.

    Another silence.

    “Did you ring me up to tell me that?” he said weakly.

    “More or less—yes,” she said, still grim. “She’s been moping her head off for the past two months. Why on earth did you break it off?”

    “Because I thought it was pointless,” he said in a low voice.

    “Pointless! Can’t you see the poor girl’s in love with you?”

    Jake hesitated. Finally he said: “I don’t know that I can, no.”

    Miss Macdonald took a deep breath. “Have you ever given her any indication that you wanted marriage, not just a silly affaire?”

    “Um—well... no,” he muttered.

    “Well?” she cried fiercely.

    Jake was now sweating. “Look, Vi, is this just some bee in your bonnet, or did Polly actually say something definite to you?”

    “She bawled her eyes out and admitted she wanted to marry you: is that definite enough for you?” she retorted smartly.

    “I suppose it is,” he croaked.

    “Mm. Well, if you don’t want to see her end up with Roger Browne or that awful Leo person, you’ll do something about it.”

    “Yuh—uh— Look, what’ll the family say, Vi? I mean, I am a Helluva lot older, and—”

    “The family will be only too glad to see her settled down at last,” Miss Macdonald assured him grimly. She waited.

    Finally he said: “I’d make sure she— Well, I’d make every provision for her.”

    “I know that, Jacob,” said the old lady, actually sounding as if he was on a slightly higher level than something you’d wipe off your boot for the first time in the entire conversation.

    “Uh—yeah. Good,” he said lamely.

    “And in case you were wondering, she’d take it as a matter of course that you’d want to have children.”

    “Eh?” he said numbly.

    “It is the usual thing.”

    “Not nowadays,” he said numbly.

    “It is in our family!” snapped the old lady.

    Jake smiled weakly. “Yeah. S’pose it is. Uh—Vi—”

    “Yes?”

    He swallowed. “I was thinking about... young Grant.”

    Miss Macdonald took a deep breath. “Yes. Did you ever meet Esmé’s sister, Greta?”

    “I know about her, if that’s what you mean. And there was an aunt, too: old Harry’s sister. She’d have lived to be... tennish, I think. Sounded just like Grant, actually.”

    “There you are, then: I always said it was on her side!”

    Jake swallowed. “Yeah. Um, well, thanks for ringing, Vi,” he said limply.

    “You’ll do something about it, then?”

    “Uh—I’ll— Yeah. Lemme think about it,” he said weakly.

    “Don’t think too long,” advised Miss Macdonald grimly, ringing off.

    When the phone rang again Jake’s heart was still thumping as if he’d just run a race, there was a buzzing in his ears, and his mind refused to concentrate. Automatically he picked up the receiver. “Carrano.”

    “Hi. ’S’me, Polly,” said a small, husky voice.

    His heart gave a great leap. Had old Violet been having a go at her, too? Did she—?

    When she said rapidly: “Listen: Jack Banks is in trouble,” he felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut by a horse.

    “What sort of trouble?” he managed.

    “Rod says he’s been arrested. Um, he’ll need a lawyer.”

    “Right; I’ll get onto Wal Briggs right away.”

    “Thanks, Jake,” she said with a sigh. “I couldn’t remember his name. I duh-didn’t want to bother you...”

    “Don’t be a clot,” he said gruffly. “Look, I’ll need a few details for Wal.”

    “Mm. Rod’s here, he knows all about it.”

    “Put him on,” he grunted.

    When he’d got all that Rod knew out of him—not that it was much—he said, trying not to show what it cost him: “Put Polly back on, wouldja?” If she’d gone—or refused to talk to him—! But she was still there.

    “Yes, Jake?” a shaky voice said.

    “I’ve got to talk to you.” He swallowed. “You up at home?”

    “No, I’m at work.”

    Uh… There was that bloody meeting he couldn’t get out of. “Look: can you hang on there till about six?”

    “Yes,” she said uncertainly.

    “Right; I’ll come up there, okay?”

    “Okay.”

    “I might be a bit late.”

    “I’ll leave the downstairs door unlocked for you.”

    He took a deep breath and said: “I’ll see you then, then.”

    “Yes. Bye-bye.”

    “Ta-ta, Pol,” he said hoarsely, and hung up.

    Only when he’d got Wal safely on the job and knew that poor young Jack would have the best defence in the country—if it got that far—did he sigh, lean back in his swivel chair, and swing round to stare unseeingly out across the harbour. Had old Violet spoken to Polly? Did she even know the old girl had rung him? And was she right about the way Polly felt? What if the whole idea was only the product of an old lady’s romantic imagination? After all, these old girls got some funny bees into their bonnets, and old Vi was like something out of the 19th century at the best of times… Polly had never given the slightest sign she wanted marriage. Not with him, certainly; and not even, he thought, frowning, in the abstract. All that stuff about them both being free agents... Leant over backwards to show him she didn’t want a permanent thing, hadn’t she, really?

    Staring out at the deep blue of the harbour and the navy bulk of Rangitoto in the background, he groaned suddenly, and passed a hand across his eyes.

    Polly hung up the phone numbly. “That’s all right, then.”

    “Yeah; thanks awfully, Polly,” said Rod. “I reckon Jack’ll be okay with Wal Briggs on his side.” He hesitated. “Um, do you think I better go on up there?”

    “Have they got him at Puriri Police Station?”

    “Yeah.” He shuffled his feet and muttered: “Don’t s’pose there’s anything I can do, but...”

    Jesus Christ! That helpless male look again! How the Hell old was Rod, anyway? “Yes, go,” she said grimly.

    Roger was also looking feeble and helpless but at this he put in: “Yes, you might be of some support to his mother.”

    Polly swallowed. She’d forgotten all about poor Marjory. “Yes. She’s not alone, is she, Rod?”

    “No, her sister’s with her.” He tried to smile. “Jack’s Aunty Shelia. Better than nothing, I suppose.”

    “Yes,” said Polly feebly. “In that case you’d better take your earring out, Rod.”

    “But these days, surely—” Roger broke off.

    “Any male earring, geddit?” said Polly heavily, as Rod removed his gold stud.

    She was just about to give in and offer to go with him—well, she had the car, she could always drop him off and come back—when the phone rang again. Maisie Pretty, wanting to know if everything was all right, dear. Well—fifty percent nosiness, fifty percent genuine concern, yeah; but at least Maisie had known Marjory for years, in fact back before Puriri Campus was built they’d worked together in the office here. Naturally the woman was incapable of acting on a simple request or instruction, but she eventually got her to stop burbling and come up here.

    Maisie was only too eager, after the gasps of horror and the protestations had been got over with, to go up to Puriri with Rod; but this unfortunately didn’t solve the problem of transport: her car was also in dock. It always had its check-up at this time of the year, because blah, blah, blah…

    “Take mine, Maisie,” said Polly in a voice that was almost as grim as she felt.

    Oh, but she’d never driven one of those German cars! And it was a sports car, she didn’t think—The look Polly was getting was the middle-aged female equivalent of the any-age helpless male “Do it for me, Mummy” that Rod and Roger had been favouring her with. This one said: “Bolster up my courage and tell me I can do it, poor little woman that I am.” By this time Polly had had enough.

    She gave the car keys to Rod. “Here, you drive. And don’t do a ton!”

    “No. Ta. I’ll let you know how it goes.” Mrs Pretty was burbling but Rod simply went out, so she followed him, redirecting the burble in his direction.

    “That’ll last all the way up to the Coast,” noted Polly.

    “What? Oh! She means well,” offered Roger feebly.

    “Fifty percent of her does, yeah.”

    “Um, yes. Um, I really am sorry, Polly.”

    “Then why didn’t you go with Rod?” she said heavily.

    “What? No! I—I mean about this morning.”

    “Eh? Oh—that,” said Polly without interest.

    Going very red, Roger went out.

    Rod had left his notes behind. Polly was about to close the folder when her eye fell on a paragraph of crap. She picked up a pen and made a note in the margin. The next paragraph was pretty feeble, too. She drew her writing pad towards her. The top page said “Wallace Briggs” and a downtown phone number. She flipped it over, picked up her pen again, and made a note: “P.3. Para 4.” Then she quickly wrote numbers against the paragraphs on Rod’s page. Then she really got down to it…

    Around four-thirty-five Roger appeared in her doorway. “I’m off now, Polly.”

    “Righto, Rog. See ya,” she said vaguely.

    “Good-night,” he muttered, and beat a hasty retreat.

    After flinging out of the Faculty building, still in a rage, Leo, who was as fastidious as one of the felines he resembled, had gone straight home and, shuddering with distaste, shed the garments that Polly had drenched with filthy water. He poured himself a tumblerful of vodka and took it into the bathroom with him. After a hot shower and the better part of the vodka his rage had abated but not his misery. Mechanically he re-dressed, unconsciously drawing comfort from the softness of the old cream silk shirt against his skin—very old: it was one that had been his father’s. It was too big for him, really; its limp, loose folds and off-the-shoulder shoulders were in fact just what this year’s fashion dictated! He snorted, and got out the new suit. Armani—not bad. Very pale grey. He ruffled his blond hair in front of the mirror, struck an attitude, and murmured: “Alors—on sort draguer?” But for once the sight of his own beauty failed to have a consoling effect and he wandered off to pour himself another vodka.

    He stood, glass in hand, looking round his sitting-room with dislike. He was bored with it; he was bored with everything. Its minimalist décor was designed to épater his bourgeoises visitors: heavy white carpet, bare white walls, chrome window frames with white, narrow-slatted Venetians, one white leather sofa, one scarlet leather chair with a slender white lamp beside it, and a long, black, featureless cabinet that contained an assortment of expensive electronic gear. From the outside it was a perfectly ordinary suburban home: the back one in a block of two single-storey brick flats. First-time guests would gape round them incredulously. “Where do you eat?” was their usual cry. His bedroom, those who got that far would assure their goggling friends, was: “Even worse! It’s all black! And he sleeps on a mattress on the floor!” The one or two who recognized it as a futon had lasted slightly longer than the others. But they all bored him, sooner or later; and usually sooner.

    Polly, he told himself with total self-pity, was the only woman he knew who didn’t bore him to tears. Unlike Roger he wasn’t hideously embarrassed by the memory of the scene in the staffroom: only annoyed that he hadn’t managed to beat the fellow to a pulp, and furious that Polly should have forced the affair to such an ignominious close.

    “Bitch!” he hissed, downing the vodka. He’d give himself a treat; he would lunch at an expensive restaurant in Parnell. He supposed The Golden Lamb, being a favourite haunt of the professional and managerial classes, would demand a tie; with his little sardonic smile hovering on his lips he chose his newest one: barely an inch wide, pure silk, in that rather hideous shade that used to be called watermelon pink. He knotted it casually about four inches below his open collar and strolled out.

    Naturally every other man in the restaurant was wearing a boring business suit; naturally every woman’s eyes wandered in Leo’s direction more than once during the meal. By three-thirty, having dallied with some smoked salmon, pushed some duck around his plate, demanded—and got—a separate salad course, and demanded—and got—cheese before the dessert, he was rejecting the dessert trolley with a shudder. The waiter shot him a jaundiced look and wheeled the trolley away. He knew a big tipper when he saw one—and he didn’t see one at Leo’s table.

    Two well-dressed women who had been whispering together and glancing curiously at Leo ever since he arrived finally worked up the courage to approach him—in tandem.

    “Excuse us, but haven’t we met before? At dear Magda von Trotte’s garden party last summer?”

    Leaning back in his chair, Leo looked them up and down with cool insolence. Very expensively dressed; slim and quite pretty; but not his type. Well-off suburbanites from Pakuranga or Kohimarama or—his gaze lingered on the crocodile handbag the prettier one was clutching—just possibly Remuera. He raised one blond eyebrow. “I was there, moi—assurément.”

    The ladies made cooing noises, which devolved into—from the less pretty but, he had decided, probably wealthier one—her handbag looked like a Gucci: “Don’tchew lecture at the varsity?”

    “I teach at the university—oui, madame,” he drawled.

    Without further ado the ladies introduced themselves. Leo extended a languid hand. “Leo Schmidt.” He still didn’t bother to rise but the ladies appeared not to notice this lapse, clutching his hand eagerly in warm, damp paws tipped with huge claws in magenta (Crocodile) and plum (Gucci). They settled eagerly at his table, making agitated gestures at the waiter.

    The creature eventually deigned to notice the table. “Coffee, sir?”

    “Non, non; je crois que mesdames aimeraient mieux des liqueurs,” drawled Leo.

    The man caved in and fetched the maître d’. The latter was young, but he was made of sterner stuff than the waiter. “Can I help you, sir?” he murmured, bowing.

    Leo did his trick of opening his eyes very wide. “Liqueurs for these ladies.”

    The man’s brown eyes met his amber ones and the was the tiniest pause. Leo realised with a ripple of amusement that he was having the effect he not infrequently had on impressionable young men. Then the maître d’ recollected himself and said smoothly: “Certainly, sir.”

    The ladies of course fluttered and exclaimed, but eventually accepted Kahlua. Wincing, Leo ordered a large Armagnac for himself. While they exerted themselves to please him, he allowed himself to wonder whether he would let one of them pay for his lunch and whether he would bother to seduce one. Both? he wondered for an instant, a muscle twitching at the corner of his long mouth. Shall I suggest a sandwich? But this wasn’t Beverly Hills, and he knew that they would both—supposing that they understood the expression—be thoroughly shocked. His mind played languidly with the idea of suggesting it anyway. They were babbling on; some nonsense now about yachts and parties at the Yacht Club; Gucci’s husband belonged to the Royal Akarana—or was it her father? He decided to drop a few names of his own. Gucci was quacking: “John Harding’s Seagull—do you know John?”

    “Connais pas; but I think I have taught his son: Alan, n’est-ce pas? Not very bright!”—This produced shocked and delighted gasps, the Hardings being practically royalty.—“Me, I find yachting far-rr too energetic; unless it merely entails sitting in the sun and letting someone else do the hard work, as one does on the Maybelline.”

    A little pause, and then the penny dropped. “Not Jake Carrano’s Maybelline? Do you know him?”

    He shrugged. “All my life; but do not let us talk about him—too boring, darr-lings!”

    It was as if one had stuffed a cork into a fizzing bottle of third-rate bubbly: all that seething curiosity, bursting to get out, was suddenly stoppered. He was considerably surprised to find that, after all, they had the manners not to insist on pursuing the subject; but having no desire to discuss Jake, he didn’t relent.

    When Gucci went off to “the powder room” he abandoned his languid pose and leant forward across the table, giving Crocodile the intimate, meaning look that says “I’m interested; are you?” The protuberant blue eyes blinked once, and she sat back, very straight, and plunged into airy chat. He was neither surprised nor disappointed. When, in her turn, she tottered off to the lavatory on the high crocodile heels that matched the bag, he gave Gucci the same look. Her eyes were hazel; rather attractive. She reddened and her mouth opened slightly as she stared into his face, motionless for a pregnant moment. Then she, too, sat back and began to mouth airy nothings. When Crocodile came back she said quickly: “I don’t know about you, Belinda, but I really must be running along!”

    Leo let them go with a mental shrug and waved languidly to the waiter. But it was the maître d’ who swanned up. Hoping for crumbs? Leo ordered another Armagnac.

    When the young man brought it, smiling at him, he leant forward and said, not loudly but very clearly: “Écoute, mon petit mec: do not put yourself to so much trr-rouble; you will get nothing out of it, I promise you!” He was quite prepared to be more explicit, if need be. But there was no need: the young man jumped, flushed crimson under his smooth olive skin, and retired, nostrils dilating with temper.

    All in all, it had been quite a satisfactory lunch; he didn’t demean himself so far as not to leave a tip, but sorted out, in small change and the lowest denomination notes he had, precisely ten percent of the bill.

    He had, of course, behaved very badly all day: in fact his behaviour had been both puerile and pathetic, both during the scene in the staffroom and at lunch. He realised this quite clearly but refused utterly to think about it.

    He wandered off in search of a pub where they sold real vodka, ending up at about five-thirty in the public bar of a hostelry not a million miles from the university.

    This morning’s blasted headache’s come back. Okay, two more Panadol. Ugh, I feel a bit sick. I’ll go to the loo. What? My period isn’t even due! No wonder I’ve been feeling so seedy!

    “Those ruddy pills! I’ll never take another one as long as I live!” It’s only sheer luck there’s a tampon in my purse. Right, the rest of the flaming Mini-pills I should never have let ruddy Bruce Smith prescribe can go the way of all flesh! Flush! Yeah, and the stupid vitamin pills that Bruce prescribed to go with them, what were they supposed to do? Counteract their effect? They appear to’ve done that, yeah, in fact it’s a wonder they haven’t counteracted it altogether and got me up the spout! Dratted doctors! I’ll just brush my hair out and put some fresh lippy on.... Ugh. It’ll have to do.

    Back in my office, and it dawns: I’d better nip along to the staffroom and correct that public notice I put up this morning! Choke, splutter, gasp!

    Five-thirty. My heart’s thudding like anything. Has he changed his thick macho mind, or what? I’m trying not to think about it but it isn’t working. ...Five thirty-two. Blast! All right, I’ll read this thing, it’ll be crap, it’s the man’s thesis re-worked but I did promise myself I’d get through it these holidays... Five-fifty. It’s no good, I can’t concentrate. I’ll just nip downstairs to make sure the main door’s open, they lock it early in the holidays.

    It is. Now where’s the ruddy lift gone? Don’t think there’s anyone here but me. Come on!

    Oh, there is someone. Nice little bloke from German. Heading home to the nice little wife—she’s a Kiwi, which is why he’s out here. It’s his first job, which is why he’s super-conscientious enough to be in here in January. “Goodnight, Polly,” he says nicely, shoving his arm in the lift door before the ruddy thing can close and vanish.

    Nip in quickly. “’Night, Wolf!” Whoosh! The doors beat me to it, yeah. Press button. ... The stupid lift’s stopped, is it gonna do its bloody—It is. The doors open slowly on Wolf’s floor, to reveal nothing. Sigh. Press button again. The doors close slowly... Our floor. Will you open! Jesus! If you thump on the exact spot it gets the point and opens instead of retreating back slowly whence it came, but it has to be the exact spot. And yes, very high-up persons have complained to Maintenance. In triplicate. Several times. Thump! Nothing. THUMP! Gee, that did it, and it condescends to open.

    Have a coffee? No, don’t really fancy one... Sit down again at my desk. Um, blow, how late is Jake going to be? I’m usually so heavy on the first day, and I've only got that one tampon. There aren’t any in the Ladies’, there is a dispenser but as usual it’s empty. Blast, I shoulda nipped out to the chemist straight away; it’s too late now, they’ll be closed and anyway I’d never make it back up here in time... What is the time? Maybe I will have a coffee.

    Not instant, a real one, I’ll use the French Department’s coffee-pot. ...Drat! Who screwed it up so tight? Gasp! Ow! Suck finger... Come on, you stupid thing, come apart. Blast! Cold coffee grounds all over the bench! Wipe, wipe... He said he’d come, didn’t he? Well, then!

    What on earth does he want to talk about? Us? Has he changed his mind? But why? Well, why did he decide to bust up in the first place?

    Glaring at the hot-plate isn't actually gonna make that coffee come through quicker, ya know...

    “Still here, ma mie?”

    Christ! Bloody Leo, what’s he doing back here?

    He gives that horrible soft laugh of his. “Did I startle you?”

    Heck, what the Hell am I gonna say to him, after this morning’s little do? Swallow. “Want a coffee?”

    “Please, darr-ling.” He comes and lounges against the bench. Ugh, he smells of cigarette smoke and liquor.

    “You been to the pub?”

    “Mais certainement.” These horrid amber eyes look at me mockingly.—Why is it that amber eyes are beautiful on a cat and really creepy on him?—“Do I stink?”

    “Just, uh, cigarette smoke and beer.” –Lamely.

    “Beer? But I wasn’t drinking beer!” He raises an arm and sniffed experimentally at his sleeve.

    “No; funny how it clings, isn’t it?” I mutter feebly.

    “Mes excuses,” he drawls.

    I’m not looking at him, I’m watching the coffee-pot, perhaps it’ll dawn that I don’t wanna have this conversation at all and he’ll push off. “Je vous en prie.”

    Out of the corner of my I can see he’s shaking with silent laughter. Now what? “O—tu peux me tutoyer, tu sais!” he gasps.

    Help, did I say— What a nit!

    Goes on lounging against the bench, I can feel he’s got that mocking smile of his on his face but I’m not looking, see?

    Phew, the coffee’s hissing at last! He doesn't help get the cups out or anything, or point out that they’re the French Department’s heavy white coffee cups that Kevin McCaffery’s ordained the other departments are not to touch on pain of death. He takes his coffee and drifts after me. I sit down at one end of the old couch and he sprawls languidly at the other.

    I've got half my coffee down me when he purrs: “Still crr-ross, mignonne?”

    Stupid twit! Scowl. I'm not gonna answer him, if he wants to indulge in some stupid sort of post mortem he can do it by himself.

    He gives a little chuckle, and drains his coffee. “Where is the so-gallant Browne? Are you waiting for him?”

    “No—he’s gone home.”

    Another nasty little chuckle. “Ah! His tail between his legs?”

    “No! Why should he?”

    He raises his eyebrows. “Do not tell me, chérie, that after all you—eugh—expressed your appreciation for his efforts on your behalf?”

    Blast, I've gone red! “No, I did not! He made as much of an idiot of himself as you did!”

    “So you do not prefer his attentions to my—eugh—humble efforts?”

    Jesus! “I’m not interested in either of you!”

    He puts his cup on the scarred old coffee table. “Then perhaps you could explain last Saturday night to me, ma chère? You did not appear to me—ah—entirely indifferent to my attentions!”

    I might’ve known this was coming! “I’d had too much to drink, you know that perfectly well!” Gulp down the rest of the coffee—shit, my hand’s shaking! I’m gonna go.

    He takes the cup and saucer off me and puts them on the little table and before I can move, leans forward and puts his right hand on the end of the couch, with his arm right across me. This close I can make out the smell of his Russian cigarettes and the lemon verbena of his soap and after-shave as well as the stale pub smell; I can hear him breathing and feel his body warmth. What on earth is he up to? He knows perfectly well it’s all off.

    “Don’t, Leo.” It’s ridiculous to feel so trapped and helpless! Oh, dear, where’s Jake?

    “Don’t you think you at least owe me an explanation?” he says in a low voice. He’s breathing right into my ear, practically. Shit, am I gonna bawl? It’s only Leo, after all!

    “I told you. I must have had too much to drink.”

    “But that won’t do, Polly! You’re not a little girl; you knew what you were doing: why didn’t you ask me to take you straight home if you didn’t—eugh—desire my attentions?”

    I'm not gonna look at him, why doesn't he stop it? He lets go of the arm of the couch and puts his hand under my chin and turns my head. I am gonna bawl, what does he think he's doing?

    “Darr-ling! Why play these silly games? You know you wanted me on Saturday: can you deny it?”

    Gulp. “No. But I told you: I don’t want to go on with it, Leo!”

    Ferocious scowl, and he slaps that arm back on the couch, trapping me again.

    This is stupid, it's only Leo, he’s just had too much to drink, I'm not trapped!

    “And me, I think you have perhaps gone too far already! Don’t try to pretend now that I disgust you!”

    “You don’t disgust me; I just don’t want to go on with it. I—I don’t love you, Leo!”

    He gives a scornful crack of laughter. “Love! Love! What’s that got to do with it?” He grabs my chin again, roughly this time, and forces me face him. “‘Love!’ My God, Polly: the Hell with ‘love!’ You came like the clappers the minute I touched you! You want me as much as I want you, and don’t you deny it!”

    “I was drunk! I don’t really want you, Leo: not in the way I want Jake.”

    Bugger, that was the wrong thing— He’s grabbed me, he’s kissing me really hard—Shit! Get off me, you idiot! He’s so heavy, and he’s rolled right on top of me, shoving his hand up my skirt—why on earth didn’t I wear jeans today? Uh—for Pete’s sake! I can’t breathe! Wrench my face away. “Leo! Let me go!”

    He laughs, he’s got his left hand on my right shoulder, ow, gripping like a vice, and my right arm’s stuck, he’s squashing me! “Jamais. ma chère!”

    Ugh, tries to kiss me again—twist my head away, quick!

    “Ah! No games!” He forces my face back.

    I’ll kick his bloody shins— Blast! Too heavy for me, I can’t get at— Stop kissing me like that, Leo, it’s horrible! ...I won’t panic, this is silly!

    His hand’s grabbing at my breast. “Ah, mignonne!”

    Now—heave! I’ve got away— I trip over his ankles, and fall.

    He’s on me, forcing me onto my back, holding my arms down fiercely, putting his whole weight on me—my God! He’s gone mad! I’m not gonna let him— Jesus, get off me! He’s too strong for me, why did I ever think that stupid fight with Rog was funny— I won’t! Get off me! Blast, I’m bawling!

    “Admit it! You want me!” he pants.

    “No! Let me GO! I won’t, I won’t!” Heave upwards, trying to shake him off— “STOP it, Leo! I don’t WANT to!”

    The lights were on in Polly’s office, but she wasn’t there. Jake began to stroll down the corridor towards the staffroom.. Her shriek halted him in his tracks. Then in an instant he was running, crêpe soles silent on the ugly brown vinyl of the corridor.

    He flung open the door, took in the scene in a split second, and plucked Leo off Polly as if he’d weighed nothing. Staggering and blinking, Leo found himself on his feet. Then a very hard fist hit him harder than he’d ever been hit in his life, and he went flying across the room, to collapse in a crumpled heap against the wall.

    Polly looked at Jake dazedly, expecting him to follow his victim and finish him off; but he dropped to his knees and gathered her gently into his arms.

    “It’s all right now, sweetheart; I’m here now; it’s all right; hush!”

    “Ja-ake!” she sobbed into his shoulder.

    “Hush, sweetheart; it’s all right now; ssh.” Over her head he saw that Leo was getting up. He stood up smoothly with her and deposited her gently on the couch. “You wait there, darling; unfinished business!”

    Polly clutched the lapel of his elegant cream linen summer suit in a damp, grubby hand. Her face flooded with colour. “Don’t hit him any more, Jake: I did—I did lead him on. Not—not today—the other day.”

    “Don’t worry: I won’t kill him,” he said grimly.

    “But it was partly my fault,” she gulped.

    He brushed the tangled hair off her forehead with an odd, finicky little gesture. “I know what I saw and heard,” he said simply, and turned round.

    Leo shrank against the wall. But being Leo, he also attempted to drawl: “She’s right: she did lead me on, the little bi—”

    Jake’s fist crashed into his face and he slithered down the wall and lay there limply.

    Polly shuddered and buried her face in the stuffy upholstery of the old couch.

    “Get up,” said Jake in a voice so quiet it was little more than a whisper.

    Then there was silence.

    Polly peered cautiously over her shoulder. Leo was still, in a heap against the wall.

    “Is—is he...?” she squeaked.

    “Knocked him out, I think.” He stirred Leo’s limp form with a cautious foot. It didn’t react. “Yeah—out cold.” He turned to her, scowling. “You okay?”

    Polly nodded. “Mm.”

    The scowl deepened. “He didn’t hurt you?”

    “No. Oh—no, he didn’t get that far.”

    He passed his hand across his jowl in a familiar gesture. “Thank God for that!”

    There was an uncomfortable little silence. Polly stared miserably at her hands.

    Then Jake said huskily: “Come on—we’re getting out of here; where’re your things?”

    “Um, just my purse; in my office.”

    “Come on, then. Can you walk?”

    “Yes, of course.” She got up shakily.

    He grabbed her arm, still scowling, and led her out.

    The big silver Merc was parked illegally on a fire hydrant just outside the Faculty building. He helped her in, went round the front of the car, got in beside her, buckled her into her seatbelt, and then just sat there, hands limp in his lap.

    Polly looked at him uncertainly. She would have understood if he’d flown into a furious rage; she would even have understood if he’d spurned her with loathing and disgust—after all, she’d admitted she’d led Leo on—but…

    She swallowed and croaked: “Are we going home?”

    “Don’t think I can face driving all the way up the Coast. Uh—penthouse?” he growled, not looking at her.

    It was on top of the Carrano Building; she’d been to the building but never seen the penthouse. According to him it was a glitzy dump they used for visiting firemen. “All right,” she said uncertainly.

    He was suddenly galvanized into action, fastening his seatbelt, looking carefully over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, putting the big car into motion.

    The evening traffic had cleared, and it was only a five minutes’ run to the Carrano Building downtown. He didn’t say a thing, just glared at the road. Was he wild with her? Help. Polly just sat there, dumb and dazed.